Night before the short program in China.

Moments come and go. Pass by so easily, with or without a conscious realisation. Some are sweet, like the caress of the one you love. Some are heated, like the argument between close friends. Some are frightening, like the understanding of what you have is about to go. And then, there are those moments you aren't really sure of. The ones you would like to explore. Relive. Dissicate, turn inside out and ultimately, understand.

That's how it is for him now, sitting next to a sprawled out man. Barely clothed. Besotted. Breathing heavily through slightly parted lips. He hasn't seen him like this before. He doesn't know what to do. If he should stay, if he should go. If he should stay silent. If he should speak. All of this is new, and he doesn't cope well with the new. He seeks comfort in the mundane, in routines that offer no surprises. Situations that mirror him, who he is and how he regards himself to be.

But with him, it's exactly the opposite. He's being challenged. Faced with the new, constantly. Without mercy, without the time to prepare. He's making him nervous, since every little thing about him is new to him. Unknown and daunting. But at the same time, he's familiar and mesmerising.

He has been watching him. For years, he's been the silent observer. The spectator from afar. Dreaming of bigger things, wanting lesser things, needing but one thing. And now, he doesn't know what to do. The one thing being nothing more than an arm's length away, but could just as well be as unattainable as the moon. Yes, he's like the moon. An apparition of silver and blue, as grand and as revered. And not for him. Although, he always have been reaching for him and his glow.

Moments ago, he carried the moon. Brought him to where he now was, safe and sound. Made sure that he was to appear on his celestial trajectory yet again, bathe him with his blinding presence once more. But now, the moon was shrouded in clouds, not beaming as forcefully as he normally does. But still offering enough light to make him see a path. One he doesn't dare to travel.

He's uncomfortable where he is, sitting next to him. Feeling the heat of a sun instead of the cool of a moon. He wants to seek shelter, ward himself from this novelty. Make sure that nothing will happen, because it would be unbearable. And breathtaking.

He hears his name, low and barely audible. To him, it sounds loud. Booming, like his ears are hypersensitive. Like they're tuned in to hear even the smallest of frequencies that originates from the inside of him.

One look to his side, to where he rests. With eyes closed, an open shirt, underwear that seems too constricting and nothing else. Absolutely nothing else than smooth skin made for touching, silver hair made for gripping and muscles made for tearing into. He doesn't want to look. He's done it before, many times under the time they've spent together and he knows what happens when he does. It's always the same, an endless and ruthless loop. The light becomes too blinding, making him lose his sense of direction. Making him lose his way and threatens to lead him off into lands uncharted. Situations unknown, where he's not his own master.

"Yuuri…?" His voice is louder now, lavishly rewarding. Like every time he takes his name in his mouth and gives it back. It's a just reward, the way his tongue constructs the last syllable. The way his lips move to make it sound in that very special way.

His voice is still muddled by external additions, but clearer than before. He's not entirely lucid, but he's getting close. It makes the observer worried. Wondering if there's more to come. If there's an end approaching.

"Yes." He answers him with hesitation. The tone isn't fitting, he doesn't want to seem uncertain. It's a weakness as far as he's concerned. Although he knows that he is. Being next to him, he can't be sure of anything. Even though he tries. Even though he struggles. Even though he desperately wants it to be different.

He doesn't say anything else. He opens his eyes instead, finding his without even a second of hesitation. They remain like that. Not saying anything, but still conducting a complicated conversation. When blue meets brown, that is what happens. Words are spoken without a sound, feelings are conveyed without a single move. There's just the same disabling electricity there that never gets an outlet. The same electricity that keeps on accumulating, making every single interaction more and more volatile. The same electricity that stands for something else, something they have never touched. Alone or together.

He's being caught by him, but that gaze that commands and begs, saunders and heals. It's doing all of that, asking all those questions. He can't make himself look away, he can't make himself answer everything that is unspoken but asked nonetheless.

His hand ends up on his. Matter-of-factly. It lingers there, being nothing more than everything. Suddenly, there's more pressure. The hand that sends all those little sparks through him with the slightest touch on any other day, shocks him now. But he endures, being conflicted. The pressure is now a hold and the lingering sensation evolves into a tug. A command to get closer. A plea to do just the same.

As he leans in, following where his hand is being taken, compliant and unknowing, his mind goes blank. Like it's holding its breath in the same way his body does. His eyes scramble, alternating between blue, narrow eyes, his hand being pulled farther away and a stomach that rises and falls in an accelerated way.

He feels his shoulder opposing to the treatment, acting as a brake. The movement stops, blue eyes blink once as they lock on, finding his with an uncanny precision. He leans in even more, goes from sitting to standing on his knees, having one hand pressed into the mattress for support. Offering himself to follow his lead.

With a smile, the moon guides him anew.

The are reflections of each other. With lips swollen of anticipation, parted to breathe. With a becoming colour on their cheeks, telling each other more than words could ever do. With hearts beating hard and fast, stuck in a rhythm that their bodies would like to follow.

As his fingers are guided to touch him, the naked chest covered in the tiniest of bumps, he becomes trivial.

"Are you cold?"

"No," he answers with a smile.

It looks like it, though. Like the million tiny elevations are speaking a language of their own.

He's not guided anymore. His hand has gotten the trust to continue on its own. To explore. He's a bad traveller, though. He ends up counting all the little irregularities, and nothing else. Tracing them, over and over. Not daring to venture on.

As immobile as his hand is, so are his eyes. They don't stray. From the corner of his eye, he can see more. Everything he's too afraid to acknowledge. It's not just his skin that stands on end. He doesn't have to look to realise that, but he secretly wishes he could.

"Go on." The voice is warm now. Full with a thickness he understands the origin of. But he can't do what he tells him to.

When he takes hold of his wrist, he doesn't fight it. He tries to swallow when his hand is taken further down, but he can't make the reflex happen. It feels like he's drowning, as he gasps for air.

His stomach is taut, the muscles tense underneath his skin. The only thing he registers as the grip around his wrist eases up a little. He closes his eyes as his fingers stay rigid, not daring to do what his mind wants them to do.

When he suddenly feels the edge of fabric, he opens his eyes. Desperately seeking comfort, not knowing where to find it. He tries to get it from him, but the smile and the blue, narrow eyes aren't on his side. They want something else, something he starts to quiver just thinking about. He retracts his hand, the grip is easy to escape being barely closed around his wrist.

He's burning up now, his cheeks are scorching and his body sweltering. He covers his mouth with his retracted hand, trying to keep the air in his lungs to stay there, but he feels it though his fingers. Burning with every exhale.

"No?" There isn't any disappointment in his voice. It sounds calm. Amused. Slightly teasing. Like he's being told that he just lost a bet he was too bold to agree to.

He meets his eyes briefly, but can't say anything. He's too wrapped up in the realisation of what was about to happen. How close he was to finding himself in a situation, a new one at that, without being there mentally. Without having the opportunity to prepare.

As he exhales, feeling his breath being more like a hot summer wind as it passes through his fingers once more, the surprise of hearing a chuckle makes him forget his embarrassment. He becomes self-aware instead, wondering what it'll be like tomorrow when they meet. If this moment will prove to be a problem or an… opportunity. If he's doing wrong, making right decisions.

"Can I…?"

He doesn't understand the question. Not right away. But when he does, that hand in front of his face grow limp as it falls into his lap. His first instinct is to make some distance between them. He feels his arms and legs tense up, prepared to either stand or move away, but he is met by a reassuring smile and a voice that goes with it.

"You don't have to move away. I'd prefer if you didn't."

He can only look at him in bewilderment as his hand is separated from himself by a thin piece of fabric. And how he's continuously having his fingers illustrate that fact. It becomes impossible to look away, even though the slight movements are the same and not intrusive. Even though he's not actually witnessing anything. But he realises, in a place deep inside, that he would say yes to something more. If he could.

It must be either a divine intervention or telepathy when he poses the question. Casually, after pulling his silver hair back from his face.

"I'd like to..." he says as he's got one hand flush against his own thigh, halfway under the black textile.

He surprises himself when he nods. When he actually says the words he never thought he'd ever say to him in a context like this. "Yes. Please."

And so he does. He gets up on his knees with ease, not losing the contact with his dark eyes for even a second as he caresses off his underwear, halfway down his thighs, before he stops. He laughs when he notices the brown eyes looking away, because they're not looking anywhere else than down, and quickly up again.

"It's okay. You can look. I'd love if you did that." He puts one hand on his shoulder to make him sit properly and not on his knees.

He still doesn't know where to look. His eyes automatically travel downwards if he doesn't concentrate. Looking into his eyes feels intrusive. Looking away isn't an option. He doesn't know what to think, nor say, when he suddenly doesn't have to worry about his autonomy, feeling his hand on the back of his head. Fingers tangled in his hair. Demanding eye contact but not forcing it.

It's like watching music. Feeling words. Incredibly hard to comprehend, but the most captivating thing he's ever taken part of. He's with him, invited to join him in a display of ultimate trust and intimacy. A part of him wants to touch him, maybe hold on to the hand he has in his hair, but that part of him is too small. Too insignificant to voice its opinion. So he remains being passive sitting down, breathing hard and looking into blue eyes that keep welcoming him back.

He uses a rhythm when he's touching himself. It's slow at first, like a classical piece of music that chases after a build. When it's there, the increase in volume, it sustains. Keeps on going, adding a new instrument at a time. For him, it's closing his fist in his hair. It's letting his hair go and trailing a thumb over his lower lip instead. It's holding on to the side of his neck.

And then, there's the crescendo. When it becomes more focused, intent of making it to the end. Not holding back at all. For him, it's eye contact. The smallest reaction he can give him, but the one that takes him there. When he's the one to close his eyes, tilt his head back and let a sigh out. A sigh that evokes so much in him, as the silent observer.

A sigh that is his name.